Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Liam
I jabbed the “close” button on my banking app so hard my finger hurt, but it didn't help. The numbers were still burned into my brain like a bad tattoo.
What I really needed was to smash the phone into a million pieces, watch it shatter like my pathetic excuse for finances. But adding a new phone payment to my mountain of debt? That'd be real smart, Liam. Real fucking smart.
No. Stop. Shove it down. Lock it away. Deep breath.
I forced my eyes toward something infinitely more worth looking at.
Emerson was hammering at her keyboard like it had personally offended her, her whole body radiating that intensity that made my chest tight. Jesus, she was going to work herself into the ground over this grant situation.
My eyes traced the familiar path they always seemed to take when I watched her work—the way her fingers flew across the keys, precise and graceful like she was conducting some invisible orchestra.
That little crease between her eyebrows that I always wanted to smooth away. The way she'd catch her lower lip between her teeth when she was really concentrating, like now.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Not in that artificial, Instagram-perfect way, but in a way that hit me right in the gut.
It was in the fierce gleam in her eyes when she talked about her research, the way her whole face lit up when expected results came back, how she'd push her hair back with her wrist because her hands were always full of papers or a coffee mug.
Sometimes just being near her made my lungs forget how to work properly. But I had to keep my distance, keep these feelings locked down tight. What the hell could I offer her anyway? A guy drowning in debt with more baggage than an airport?
But that pull... Christ, that pull. Before I knew what I was doing, my feet were carrying me toward her workstation.
With each step, I could practically feel the stress radiating off her in waves, matching the rhythm of my own screwed-up pulse.
“Anything I can do?” I asked, trying to make my voice soft, but it always came out a little rougher than I wanted.
Emerson didn’t even glance up, eyes glued to the screen like it held all the answers. I knew she was about to brush me off, but I wasn’t going to let her.
“Let me make you a cup of tea,” I insisted, already moving toward the tiny kitchenette in the corner. She needed a break, and I was going to make it my job to make sure she got one.
I filled the kettle, mind running a mile a minute. Rummaging through the cupboards, I found a dusty box of Earl Grey. It would have to do.
As I tore open a packet, the scent filled the air, a comforting blast from simpler times.
“You know,” I said, my voice cutting through the room, “my grandma always swore by the healing power of a warm cup of tea and a trusted ear.”
I glanced back, seeing if she was paying attention. Her eyes flickered toward me, curiosity breaking through her steely focus.
“She’d say no problem was too big after a good cuppa and a heart-to-heart.”
Emerson finally looked up, a hint of a smile on her lips. It was small, but it was there. For a moment, the weight on her shoulders seemed to lift.
I handed her the steaming mug, and as the warmth seeped into her hands, she seemed to relax a little.
“Everything’s riding on this,” she said, her voice barely audible. “If we don’t find some financing soon, all our work—years of research—it’s all gone.”
I nodded, heart aching for her. “I know it’s tough, but you’re not in this alone. We’re a team, remember? We’ll get through it.”
Her eyes softened, and she took a tentative sip of the tea.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice laced with gratitude. “I needed this.”
I watched her, the weight of the world etched on her face.
“And of course,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “if this doesn’t work out, we could always start a band. I hear science-themed rock is the next big thing.”
She laughed, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, really? And what would we call ourselves? The Neuro Notes?”
“Or maybe The Synaptic Serenaders,” I shot back, loving the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled.
As we drank our tea, the conversation lulled. It was one of those moments when your mind is spinning for something to say. and you know the other person’s is too.
Unfortunately, Emerson found something to say first.
“Are you happy here?” she asked. “At the lab, I mean. Sometimes I get the sense you’re a little... tortured.”
I took a long drink of my tea, wondering how in the hell to answer that.
I was tortured. Every damn minute of the day she was beside me… but it wasn’t like I could just spit that out, so I panicked and said the next worst thing.
“In my family,” I said, “love’s practically a religion. I grew up believing human connection was this powerful thing, and I guess this whole business of reducing it to chemicals and synapses is a bit of a tough pill to swallow. More than I thought it would be.”
Emerson tilted her head as if the idea just didn’t compute. Which, to her, I suppose it didn’t.
“My mom and dad,” I continued, a bit of a smile creeping up, “they had this love that made no sense. Watching them, it was like they were on a whole different level, beyond physical, beyond what science could explain. They were complete opposites in every way, from their backgrounds to their personalities, but they fit together like two pieces of an impossible puzzle. Because of them, I guess I felt like I needed to crack the code of the heart, which was why this job was so appealing. But it’s also completely agonizing.”
I gave her a ‘what can you do?’ look.
Emerson’s eyes were on me, sparking with something I couldn’t quite pin down. For a moment, the lab disappeared. It was just us, connected by this shared curiosity about love, the air between us practically sparking.
But she shifted the conversation back to the lab’s cold, clinical take on love, and my frustration started creeping in.
“Don’t you ever wonder if reducing love to a series of chemical reactions strips it of its beauty… its meaning?” I asked. “Like we’re taking away something crucial by trying to quantify and control it?”
Emerson’s eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of doubt, a crack in her scientific facade. But then she straightened, her face hardening.
“I get where you’re coming from,” she said, her voice annoyingly calm. “But science is about understanding the world, even the parts that seem magical at first glance. If we can break love down, maybe we can help more people find it.”
I shook my head with both admiration and frustration. Arguing with her was like arguing with a brick wall—a very sexy, intelligent brick wall.
“But isn’t there something to be said for that magic? The unquantifiable, the inexplicable? Love isn’t a puzzle to be solved—it’s an experience… a journey. What if it’s the mystery itself that makes it so beautiful?”
Emerson’s eyes flashed with fierce intensity. “I get that,” she said, her voice low and fervent. “But if we can’t understand it and quantify it, how can we help people?”
Realizing I might’ve pushed too hard, I took a deep breath and softened my tone.
“I’m sorry,” I said, locking eyes with her. “I didn’t mean to imply our work isn’t important.” I watched her face closely. “I respect what we do here. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to love than what we can measure in a lab.”
A flicker of understanding passed between us, recognizing the complexity of what we were dealing with. Her defenses dropped just a bit, and I felt a tentative but deeper connection forming.
“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out,” she finally said.
The tension had eased, but some still lingered, so as I stood to get back to work, I did what I do best—made things more awkward by cracking a dumb joke.
“I guess we are. Because you know what they say about neuroscientists…” I said with a grin, “…they've got a lot of nerve.”
To my surprise, she laughed—a real, genuine laugh that cut through the rest of that tension. The sound of it was pure relief, soothing the raw nerves from our discussion.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head, but I caught a playful glint in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Yeah, but you like it,” I shot back.
“Don’t push it,” she warned, but her smile betrayed her.
“But seriously, Doc, I get it. Your work is amazing, and I’m just... I don’t know, a romantic idiot who doesn’t want to see the magic lost.”
She looked at me, her expression softening. “Maybe this lab needs a bit of that magic,” she admitted. “Science is all about proving and disproving assumptions. Maybe we’ll find a balance between both of ours.”
The sincerity in her voice made my heart ramp up a notch. “Maybe we will,” I agreed. “And in the meantime, how about we call a truce? I’ll try to keep my romantic craziness in check if you promise not to turn me into a lab rat.”
“Well, I can try, but promises are serious business. I can’t just give those out willy-nilly.” And with the way her eyes sparkled, all I could do was grin back like a goofball.
When it started getting late, the lab bathed in the soft glow of evening light, I started packing up to head out. But before I left, I had one last thought that I apparently just couldn’t let go.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, my voice low. “Maybe love can be broken down into chemicals and processes that can be observed and quantified in a lab. But what if it’s more than that? What if by hyper-focusing solely on the science, we’re missing out on something beautiful, something... transcendent?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Liam,” she finally managed, sounding like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or argue, “transcendent? Really?”
I took a step closer, close enough to smell her—some kind of cherry blossoms or something that was way too nice for this stuffy lab.
“C’mon, Doc. You’re telling me you’ve never felt something you couldn’t explain? Something that made all your fancy data seem... I don’t know, kinda useless?”
She snorted, but it sounded forced. “That’s called being sleep-deprived and overcaffeinated.”
“Nah,” I said, grinning. “It’s called being human.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t step back. “Please, enlighten me with your vast wisdom on the human condition.”
“I would love to,” I said. “Because sometimes you meet someone, and it’s like... I don’t know, your whole world tilts sideways. And suddenly all those boring chemical reactions are happening inside you, and let me tell you, it’s a hell of a lot more exciting than it looks on paper.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I swear I could see the gears turning in that incredible brain of hers. “That’s... just a physiological response.”
“If you say so,” I said, but I was grinning.
Because impossible or not, I was pretty sure I’d seen a crack in Emerson’s perfectly scientific world. And man, was I looking forward to seeing what else I could shake loose.